WARNING! This page contains adult material. If you are under 18 years of age, or are offended by adult themes, please leave now.

Legal Mumbo-Jumbo: I do not own Jeepers Creepers 1 or 2, nor any characters from those films.

He Gets To Eat - a Gastronomic Quest, grocery list, and journal of meals

Day 1 - March 15 (42.162N, 89.845W)


Woke up feelin' like crap. Mouthful a' dust, dry as a bad well and tastin' a rotten turdstools. Hungry enough to drag m'self out an' scrounge, though.

Scrounge, heyll. Nothin' but the best.

Sniffed out a young buck pissin' in the dirt beside his wheels. I plunged a hand b'twixt his ribs, grasped that flutterin' heart and ripped my prize free with a schlurp. The buck fell twisting. His stunned eyes watched me stuff the steamy fistful inter my jaws.

Ohhh, it was juicy, tender and almost effervescent. I felt so much better after that fine breakfast. I oughta have one every day.

Day 2 - March 16

Spent all day cleaning the lair. Excessive dust def'nitely a hazard. M' nose got all clogged an' useless.

Used some warm roadkill as bait to rustle up a decent sniffer. The lady could smell that stank from a mile away; a fine-tuned honker if ever I tasted one. Not much meat, but so damn crunchy, it hit the spot. To cleanse my palate, I grabbed a heart on my way outta town.

Note to self: Don't forget dust masks.

Day 3 - March 17

Dang, but if my pylorus warn't killin' me all day...figurtively speakin', that is. Jes' too worn out to digest anything but isself. An' innards of my standards are slim pickins around here, of late. Might be time to roll down the road a-ways, towards the maturin' crops.

I always try ter keep 'em in rotation, anyway.

Finally got the truck runnin' in the late afternoon. Perfect timing; they always bite better 'round about sunset. An' so do I.

Day 4 - March 18 (41.822N, 89.107W)

Moved over to a factory town.

The wind here is conveniently steady. If I drive around a bit an' park jest right, I can smell the whole ant-pile, every last one of 'em. The selection changes with the shift whistle, every eight hours. Plenty of time to make my choices.

People jest up an' disappearin' ain't nothin new around here. My cull won't hardly be noticed.

Day 5 - March 19

Even easy pickin's can be hard on the digestion.

I was browsin' through the household of a fecund nightshift worker, and searchin' for the source of a most magnetic aroma. The eldest son - a man already - put a servin' of buckshot right through my innards.

Well, his heart was delicious, but he warn't much use. It was the mother of the family, after all, who was smellin' so good. Her an' her pretty little neck.

I kept her head as a souvenier, and have sewn it to the body of the neighbor that was in her bed. They make a cute couple.

Day 6 - March 20

These factory-bred critters are abundant, but bland and flabby. I hunted in the outlyin' slums today, hopin' fer a surprise, I guess. Well, I got one. Lost face after a manner - took half the night ter get it all back in order.

Not a wasted hunt entirely; I picked up some fine parts an' a pretty carcass or three.

The sun and moon rule equally today.

Day 7 - March 21 (39.857N, 90.136W)

Drifted on down the road in search of fresh vittles. There's a string of five train cars rotting on an abandoned track. An empty coal car, three boxcars, and half a caboose - forgotten and overgrown all about with tall scrub. They've been a fine habitat for the past few feeds.

The roost was undisturbed, 'cept fer some pungent varmints and the usual weather damage. Didn't take me long to clear 'em out an' dust off the old mounts. They appeared as perky as ever, an' I added a couple after samplin' the local flavors.

I do believe they're gettin' taller.

Day 8 - March 22

No wonder it's called the Crow Moon. They're thick as thieves, the murder a' crows that still roostin' in the coal car. Clever birds. Stayin' on even when there's nothin' left to pick at - every new clutch knows a messy eater lives here.

Crow shit stanks ter hades.

Most of this lost train is steel - cain't tell the streaks of rust from the dried blood splattered on it. But these boxcars were floored with planks. What ain't grey an' cracked as my face is spongy with mildew.

A jill with nice legs fell right through the southern corner. I founds her an hour later, still tryin' to crawl away on her stumps.

Day 9 - March 23

Treated myself to gourmet delights today. Sometimes diggin' those tiny morsels out can be sloppy work, an' if it ain't, I make it so.

Not all of 'em have one, these days. A 'pendix, that is. Long time back, I was gnawin' a robust liver, an' I noticed that tasty little worm had been cut out. Even more peculiar, he'd been sewed back up.

So I had to try it myself. After eatin' his liver, and cauterizin' the worst leaks, I closed his belly. 'Course, the old scar had healed nicely since the victim was pampered back to health. I did some fancy stitches around that prissy little cut, jes' fer fun. Shit-fire, but did he holler.

Kept up the hollerin' and carryin' on for a few days.

I don't figger they can live without most of what's in their skins, but I still try it now an' again.

Day 10 - March 24

Crow guano an' coal dust is a highly volatile brew.

Hell's bells, I thought after strikin' th' earth, that was a kick. Watched the cloud of blasted feathers swirl an' flutter away into the sky. Shame about the crows, but there ain't no better way t' get rid of unwanted company.

Had to feed rough today. Bits of me was fallin' off all over the place. Jes' et whatever I happened acrost.

Day 11 - March 25 (39.031N, 90.796W)

Stumbled across a tasty stroke of luck. A minor-league team camped out at that ratty old motel, same one I picked a few dainties from coupla feeds back. Only nowadays, it ain't even a flophouse. More like a roach motel.

All a' those fine, healthy hearts will make pullin' the new wings a little less torturous. For me, anyway.

Day 12 - March 26

'Cept for the delicious players and their cheapskate manager, there's been no mansign here for threescore year or more. Screamin' an such ain't a concern, nor is the mess I tend to make.

One of 'em was still crawlin' around an fussin. He gave me the finger. I took the hand.

Didn't need any more arm bones, but I et one just for the entertainment. The funnybone. Because it's humerus.

Day 13 - March 27 (39.857N, 90.136W)

Ran across a hitcher today. Well, jes' winged him, to be honest, which I ain't.

What a lickerish prize - he was full a' the most robust and toothsome fodder. In fact, he's still hangin' on, what's left.

Such a fine specimen! Too bad there won't be nothin' much left ter mount. I'll scrape some nice parts together an' make an artist's rendition.

Day 14 - March 28

Restless teeth drove me back out. Cain't stand settin' around to eat, it's like cheatin'.

Whatever I fix my sniffer on knows it right soon, and I get a tart li'l burst of musk as the critter goes affright. A heart throbs, the aromas begin to talk. I shop for the quality offerin's like a housewife at market. A squeeze here an' a prod there, they know they're bein' hunted even if they don't know why.

That's what makes 'em worth th' trouble - they're such na´ve and amusin' prey. And they look good on a wall.

Day 15 - March 29

Got some peculiar jewelry stuck in my teeth this mornin'. Threw me off stride all day.

Those young 'uns can be a puzzlement. For all their savage pretentions, they scare like rabbits. But the pups sure are tender as ever. Next time, I'll jes' yank them rings out beforehand.

Day 16 - March 30 (38.917N, 91.441W)

Found a new hole-up. Smelly old abbatoir in the unfashionable side a' town. All nice an' set up for slaughterin' their livestock - I find the irony satisfyin'.

Made use of the meat locker, though the cooler's broke. I like 'em a bit rank, anyway, but I hate those goddamn flies. The homemade morgue is convenient for those times when it takes all day jes' ter chase down that one scrap of meat I cain't live without. It's good livin' - I come in worn down to the nub, and hung up in there is a whole vault of reekin', aged meat, jes' cryin' to be played with. Some of 'em are even beggin'.

They can take awhile to season, but I don't begrudge the time spent.

Day 17 - March 31

Wouldn't think it, but some of their best parts are the obsolete ones. Many a' organ's just fer pretty, now, like it ain't got nothin' better to do than taste good.

I b'lieve it's called domestication.

Day 18 - April 1

Didn't have the heart to eat anything today.

So, I jes' fasted, did a little bit of sewin'.

April Fool!

Day 19 - April 2 (38.214N, 92.685W)

I love campers. They get especially pungent, pretendin' to be nomads in their little tents. Easy enough to sniff 'em out, but I like to spend the whole night messin' with 'em.

Some stranges sounds to lure 'em out, and then I pick the tenderlin's off one by one. The woods make a pretty neat trap, not a one of 'em got out.

Day 20 - April 3

It's gettin' to be some work fulfillin' my daily cravin's.

Many of the squirmy little chunks jes' fall right into my lap, like they knew how hungry I was for that particular flavor. Even so, most of 'em have to be chased down, scared into smellin' good, and that don't even count diggin' through the mess of innards to get at the right mouthful.

Style an' strategy, plus an unhealthy dose of old fashioned chance - that's what gets me fed.

Day 21 - April 4 (39.407N, 92.291W)

Don't know why it should be, but taste buds have no flavor at all. Ain't complainin' - everything else underneath them bumps is uncommonly savory. Eatin' 'em right outta the rind makes me giddy and ruttish.

Pokin' them dead shells ain't as much fun as you'd think, though - no screamin' or wigglin' or nothin'. Jes' chilly, sticky, fartin' meat.

Then again, it ain't so bad, neither.

Day 22 - April 5

Seems like the more I cram down my gullet, the more beat-up I get. In the hunt after an irresistable string of thoracic backbones, half the damn bones in my old carcass got broke, smashed, pulverized, shot through, or blowed up. Spent more time replacin' the busted tatters than indulgin' my carniverous whimseys.

Warn't a complete waste - educational and even challengin'. The followin' is out of a book belongin' to a medical student:

'The bones of the wrist can be easily remembered with the acronym SLTPTTCH - Some Lovers Try Positions That They Can't Handle. (Scaphoid Lunate Triqetrium Pisiform Trapezium Trapezoid Capitate Hamate).'

That's too easy - jes' eight tiny bones? Not that I'd forget, but to memorialize the day's steadfast diet, here's an acronym: The Nasty Lover That Cannot Handle A Position Might Favor Flexibility - Puts Your Craving For Explicit Violence In Pretty Twisted Context.

Speakin' of lovers tryin' positions they cain't handle, well I ain't found one yet.

Day 23 - April 6 (39.997N, 94.329W)

I cain't eat another damn bite.

Made it a point, since time's run out again, to splurge on my favorites. Cain't believe I ate it all. Found the room somehow, always can. Hunger ain't just my modus operandi, it's my callin'.

Time for a long nap.

Thanks for reading my secret diary, you delectable little fraidy-cats. Catch ya next time around, if you're unlucky.

He Gets To Eat
by Mary Harris
Copyright 2008